Flowers
She wove a garland out of flowers she picked from my garden
And placed them in her hair,
and called herself a queen
Of the fair, and I almost believed her
God, how could I not?
I could have met her in the forests
And my mortal mind simply forgot
You'd think eyes like that could enchant
You'd think a voice like that could bewitch
How could skin like that not have magic to warm it?
How could love like this be mundane?
She would've been danced between the trees
Or sat in front of an enamored court
On a thrown of thorns and leaves
Whispered to the wasps, commanded the bees
Serving honey and wine and bloodied meat
But she's in my garden
Only grass to seat her
My flowers, grown for her
No queen but mine, self appointed
In humble coronation
How lucky I am to be her subject
How lucky I am to be hers
Copyright © Jay Yeats | Year Posted 2019
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